


New Rules

by tabbygyson, UnchartedCloud



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: (and we do mean filthy), Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Clarke is a high powered lawyer, Clarke pov, Clexa Week, Clexaweek21, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Lexa is a filthy capitalist, One Shot, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Strap-Ons, this was supposed to be 5000 words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-12 20:41:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29890254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tabbygyson/pseuds/tabbygyson, https://archiveofourown.org/users/UnchartedCloud/pseuds/UnchartedCloud
Summary: There's something about Lexa Woods, the enigmatic, charismatic founder of the Coalition Group, that makes her difficult to resist. She's powerful, confident - and the sex isphenomenal.But when Lexa violates one of the very specific terms of their arrangement, Clarke needs to come up with a new set of rules for herself: ones meant to help her get over Lexa.But as we all know, if she's under her, she's not getting over her.A Modern AU for Clexa Week 2021.
Relationships: Clarke Griffin/Lexa
Comments: 28
Kudos: 171
Collections: Clexaweek2021





	New Rules

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Clexaweek 2021, Clexakru! 
> 
> This explicit jaunt fits into a few different prompts for this year: at work (sorta), out of bounds (sorta), so...we're posting it today, the Free Day. It's also lowkey written with New Rules by Dua Lipa playing on repeat in our heads.
> 
> Enjoy!

" _I can't believe you."_

_"This is the last time."_

_"Clarke, I swear to god, if you get in that cab--"_

_"I'm just going to talk. I have to tell her to her face, or she'll never accept it."_

The way Raven's eyes darkened as she sighed through her nose is still so clear in Clarke's mind. _"So much for your 'new rules.'"_

Rainwater runs down the car windows in slow rivulets, turning the city streets beyond into streaks of multicolored light. The red of tail lights, bright white halogens of storefronts and signs, the occasional neon flash of massive LED displays all blur and blend together, a riotous kaleidoscope zipping by while lofi House music pulses from the cab's radio. Clarke watches a quarter of the city disappear along the familiar route: it takes exactly twenty-two minutes to get from her apartment to Lexa's, depending on traffic.

Her stomach twists with nerves the entire way, anxiety driving her to rehearse what she plans to say a dozen times or more. She isn't _afraid_ of Lexa, not in any real way; for all that the woman can be cold and calculating, Clarke has never worried for her own safety around her. And yes, _technically_ Lexa's company is her firm's largest client, but she's never had her employment held over her head or anything like that. She's litigated harder arguments in front of harsher audiences before, and those had careers and money on the line - so why is she so nervous about this oncoming confrontation?

The answer she's unwilling to admit to is that no, she isn't afraid of Lexa. But she's afraid of _herself_. The woman has a way of getting under her skin, and when she does...Clarke finds it very, very difficult to say no to her. _That_ is the power dynamic that characterizes their private relationship, and that is what makes Clarke uncertain of herself now. It’s why she had to set up new rules for herself in the first place.

The first of which she promptly broke a little over two hours ago. _One: don’t so much as_ look _at any text she sends after 5PM._

Clarke unlocks the phone that’s been sitting idly in her hand and it opens to the same screen she locked it on. A single text from Lexa Woods, hardly more than a line long: _Dinner at my place. 8PM._

The clock on the cab’s dash glows radioactive green under the meter. 8:41. At least she isn’t going to be on time.

Rain hardly wets her shoulders as she steps out of the cab; it isn’t coming down very hard, and the minimalist marble lobby of Lexa’s building is a mere few steps from the curb. She greets the doorman as she enters, his name, face, and uniform all well known to her, but he’s already picked up the phone. She hardly gets a “hi” out to him before he’s saying, “yes, ma’am,” returning the handset to its cradle, and telling her, “You can head on up.”

The elevator doors slide closed, and Clarke is left to stare at her own slightly warped reflection in their polished steel. The number of rides she’s taken on this elevator feel innumerable, often after an extra few hours at the office, following a work function, or sometimes even after dinner with the woman herself. On those occasions Clarke was dressed to the nines with immaculate suits, skirts, dresses, red soled heels, her hair done up and a full face of makeup. That last bit she still has - she hadn’t bothered to take it off after work, electing instead to dive right into a six pack with Raven - and her chin-length hair is still barely holding on to the curls she’d put into it that morning. But the suits and skirts have been replaced by cuffed blue jeans and an oversized sweatshirt, the Louboutins replaced with black ankle boots. 

_Two: do_ not _plan outfits around her reaction._

She’d mostly succeeded at following that rule, then. Though a little voice belatedly tells her exchanging “she’ll _love_ this” for “she’ll _hate_ this” probably isn’t really in the spirit of the thing.

The double digit floors beep past, the elevator whisking her hundreds of feet into the air before the screen glows with a single letter: _P._ The doors open, and Clarke crosses the hall to the only door on this floor.

A muffled call answers her knock, audible over the faint sound of music through the wall: “Come in.”

Clarke takes a breath in to steel herself. Then she opens the door and steps into the apartment of Lexa Woods, founder and CEO of the Coalition Group.

The apartment itself is exactly what one might expect the apartment of a ravenously successful tech mogul to be. Simultaneously spartan and lavish, Lexa fills her space with things that scream _money_ with their elegant simplicity. Nothing in this apartment cost less than a grand, Clarke is so certain, from the pots in the kitchen to the throw blanket draped just so over the sofa’s back. But for all the luxury present, there’s nothing _soft_ about the space. In that way, it perfectly reflects the woman who inhabits it: beautiful, pristine, enticing, yes...but cold and distant, inaccessible too. 

The lights are dimmed, turned down low to suit the music playing softly from the ambient sound system. Clarke recognizes one of Lexa’s cool down playlists, the sort she likes to listen to when relaxing after work - and she does so at the same time she identifies the _delicious_ smell wafting from the kitchen. Sautéing onions and garlic, the stuff of the gods.

She takes one look at the perfectly aligned row of coat hooks beside the door, all but one occupied by familiar jackets and coats suited to different weather, and unzips her own. That last hook is meant for her raincoat, sure as if her name were written in bright, blinking showlights above it. She ignores it and makes for the kitchen.

 _Three: do not set_ foot _in her apartment_.

She’d considered altering that rule to include the inverse, but decided with a note of derision that wasn’t necessary. Lexa has never once been interested in coming to Clarke’s place, even when Clarke made it clear that Raven would be out of town. Distant. Inaccessible. Cold.

She stokes a fire with these reminders, all the reasons she needs to put a foot down _now_ and put an end to this charade they’ve been playing at - but that fire sputters as soon as she catches sight of her.

Lexa stands at the stove, one of her dozen tailored white shirts crisp across her shoulders, her long, dark hair tossed in waves over one side of her head. She doesn’t turn around, even though Clarke is positive she knows she’s there; she moves something around on the skillet in front of her instead, eliciting a fresh _hiss_ of cooking food. Her sleeves are rolled up just under her elbow and her left hand, adorned by a watch with a black leather strap; its face glints as she reaches out to pick up her phone from the counter beside the stove. The screen comes to life and she looks at it just long enough to ascertain the time.

“You’re late,” she says, puts the phone back down, and returns her attention to the cooking food.

A large, three wick candle burns on the center of the island that stands between them, its familiar fragrance of pine, clove, and just a trace of citrus mixing with the smell of food. The lights on the stove’s hood are on, but the kitchen is otherwise dimly lit: the flickering candlelight, reflected in the island’s polished surface, joins the low lights set in the ceiling. The last time she spent any length of time in this kitchen she and Lexa did things on that countertop and its matching bar seats that makes Clarke shiver even now, and she has to intentionally tear herself back to the present.

“I had something to do,” she lies, putting her hands in the pockets of her coat. Lexa doesn’t need to know the internal - soon to be external, once Raven found out where she was going - argument she’d had before deciding to come here. 

“Mm.” Lexa doesn’t sound particularly convinced, but she doesn’t push the subject. “Just as well. Dinner’s nearly done.”

“I’m not staying for dinner.”

 _That_ catches Lexa’s attention. For the first time in the five minutes Clarke’s been standing here, seven minutes after she’d learned of her arrival, Lexa turns to look at her. Green eyes adorned with dark liner so sharp it could cut and a thick fringe of lashes catch Clarke’s blue - then drop to the collar of her coat, the sweatshirt visible beneath its open front, and the top of Clarke’s jeans. Then back up. Lexa lifts an imperious brow.

“Is that so?”

Before Clarke can confirm that it is indeed so, Lexa turns back to the stove. She pulls two plates already set out on the counter closer and begins transferring the contents of the skillet to them. “That’s too bad,” she says as she does. She doesn’t sound terribly put out, but perhaps that’s because she doesn’t believe Clarke about that either; she makes up both plates, despite Clarke’s declaration. “I had this incredible salmon at Polo the other night. The chef was being particularly tight-lipped about the recipe, so this is mostly guesswork--but I think I’ve managed it.”

Clarke has nothing to say to this and stays silent as Lexa lifts a rocks glass to her lips, her other hand slipping the spatula beneath the second salmon filet. She usually prefers red wine while she’s cooking; that Lexa’s sipping at whiskey instead tells Clarke all she needs to know about the other woman’s day. If whiskey’s out during dinner, the work day has inevitably been nasty, brutish, and very, very long.

Neither of them speak as Lexa pulls a tray from the oven and spoons the contents - some sort of vegetable mix - onto the plates along with the salmon. A smaller saucepan kept on low heat on the stove contains some sort of topping she drizzles across both filets. Satisfied with her plating, Lexa slips her phone in her pocket and carries both around to Clarke’s side of the island. She sets both plates down in front of two side-by-side bar chairs, lays out silverware, and retrieves her whiskey. Only then does she angle one of the chairs towards Clarke and take a seat, one black-shoed-foot sitting on the footrest of the chair opposite.

“If you aren’t here for dinner,” she says, looking Clarke up and down again with the rocks glass hanging from her fingertips, “then what _are_ you here for?”

Lexa’s tie for the day - black, naturally - still hangs around her neck, and the first three buttons of her shirt are left open. Both are done on purpose, Clarke is certain, but it works anyway: her eyes catch on Lexa’s collarbones and her mouth goes dry, thinking of the many things that tie has been used for. 

She closes her eyes and stuffs her hands in the pockets of her coat. _Focus, Griffin. For fuck’s sake._

“I want to talk about the Isley case.” 

The words are hardly out of her mouth before Lexa rolls her eyes and spins in her seat, picking up her knife and fork. “That.”

Clarke frowns. “Yes, _that_. We had an agreement.”

“I’ve held up my end of the bargain.”

“We agreed: no personal cases.”

Lexa looks at her from the corner of her eye as she swallows a sliver of fish. “You had no objection to the Sato case.”

“That was different,” Clarke maintains. She’s careful to keep her distance, determined to let the plate of food set out for her go cold regardless of how amazing it smells. “I did some research for Kane because it related to my other assignments, I didn’t _run point_ on it.”

“The Isley case is related to your other assignments. I’m merely cutting out the middle man.”

“ _Lexa.”_

Her name comes out with an involuntary amount of frustration, and the woman herself merely turns at the sound of it. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t answer - just arches that damn eyebrow again, as though daring Clarke to continue. Which, of course, only turns that frustration up a few degrees. 

“We. Had. An agreement.” Clarke’s voice is hard. She isn’t about to get steamrolled on this. “If we were going to do this, I was only going to be assigned to cases for the Coalition Group. The Isley case isn’t _for_ the Coalition Group, it’s for _you_.”

Lexa had been eating quickly - politely, cleanly, but voraciously nonetheless - but even so, not even a quarter of her food is gone when she pushes her plate away. “I am aware of our agreement,” she says flatly and stands.

“So, what - you just blatantly ignored it anyway?” Clarke shifts to keep Lexa in her eyeline as the other woman crosses the space between them and pushes past her. She turns and follows her into the living room, and on down the hall. “Just assigned me your personal case, without so much as _mentioning_ it to me first?”

“If I had asked you to take it on you would have refused,” Lexa answers over her shoulder. She pulls her phone from her pocket and starts flicking through screens; the casualness of it makes Clarke’s blood pressure tick up even more. 

“ _Because we had an agreement!”_ she says, barely able to keep her voice under control. Lexa pushes open the door of her bedroom and Clarke follows her in before she realizes that’s an awful idea. “Why do you think you can just choose what I do and don’t do with impunity?”

“I rather expect my employees to do as I need them to,” Lexa answers. She doesn’t look up from her phone as she pulls her tie from around her neck and tosses it on a shelf.

“I don’t _work_ for you, Lexa!”

“You work for Arkadia,” she explains calmly, infuriatingly evenly, “and Arkadia works for me.”

“Oh for _fuck’s sake,_ will you put down the phone??”

Lexa turns on her heel to face Clarke, another one of those challenging looks glinting in her eyes. Dramatically, pointedly, even, she clicks the lock button on her phone and tosses it on the bed. They stand for a moment just glaring at each other before Lexa turns without a word and steps into the en suite bathroom.

When she disappears beyond her sight, Clarke stands simmering just within the bedroom’s doorway. Contrary to the spartan decoration of the rest of the apartment, Lexa’s room is inundated with _things_ \- three full walls are populated by the same set of wide, dark wood built-in shelves from ceiling to mid-wall, where they meet built-in chests of drawers. Books, watches, ties, candles, gadgets, a miasma of items that should imply more about the woman who owned them than they do populate every one. There hangs her collection of perfectly fitted button down shirts, there her suit jackets, there her line of watches that cost more than Clarke’s education, and any one of these things should give _some clue_ as to who Lexa is as a person. But Clarke has learned over the last few months that they’re more mimicry than personal choice - elements of an elaborate disguise designed to separate Lexa from the rest of the world she inhabits. Her clothes aren’t outfits, they’re armor.

The closest to _revealed_ that Lexa becomes is in the spines of her books. Some are pristine, unbroken, potentially never even opened, where others are visibly worn through, corners battered and bent from days, weeks, _years_ of being carried around in this bag or that. Sometimes she’s able to get Lexa to talk about them, usually between sessions in the semi-dark with wine in her hand and Clarke on her breath; which ones are her favorites, where she acquired them, debating the finer points of this character or that philosophy. But each time Lexa eventually remembers that she should be protecting the softer parts of herself from view, and she uses her tongue to distract Clarke in ways that don’t involve talking.

The sound of rushing water tells her the sink faucet turns on, and Clarke waits for it to stop before saying, “I’m not playing this game. We had an agreement, you broke it, I’m done.”

“I _broke it,"_ Lexa begins, the first inflection of the evening in her voice. She steps back into the bedroom and the only thing that’s visibly changed about her is her shirt: she’s untucked it and unbuttoned it, leaving it hanging around a torso entirely too well defined for Clarke’s own good. Clarke isn’t sure why she needed to go to the bathroom to open her shirt - a dramatic reveal potentially, and that’s something Lexa would _certainly_ do - but she stops two feet from Clarke and continues, “Because it was necessary. _Everything_ hinges on the Isley case.”

“So leave it to Kane!” Clarke throws her hands up, exasperated. “He won the Sato case, _and_ the Lance case, _and_ the Choi case. He can--”

“I _don’t want_ Kane, I want _you!”_

That admission draws them both up short. It’s hard to pinpoint why Lexa is suddenly blinking at her like she’s realizing a horrible mistake, because Clarke _knows_ the reason she herself stops functioning must be wrong. Because for a brief, brief moment it sounded to her ears like those words had more to do with Lexa than they had to do with any case or business matter...like perhaps, beneath all the cool indifference, Lexa Woods has somehow found herself attached to Clarke. But that would be insane. 

_Love is weakness_. Clarke has never heard her say those words, but there’s little doubt in her mind that Lexa thinks they’re true. So far as she knows, Lexa has never had anything more than the occasional dalliance - quite like the arrangement she has with Clarke. Sex, occasionally companionship, but nothing so deep that Lexa would have to start _caring_ about what her woman-of-the-moment thinks or needs. One doesn’t bootstrap her way to the top by _caring_ about other people. 

Nevertheless, Clarke can see color rising up Lexa’s chest to her throat. The other woman turns on her heel before Clarke can watch it climb any further and jerks the open shirt down over her shoulders. “Kane does an acceptable job, but he doesn’t have your mind, Clarke. You’re special. And I need you on this.” 

“You _need--_ ” Clarke shuts her mouth and takes a deep breath. Whatever the reason, this conversation has taken a turn she did not expect, and she can’t help it — now she’s curious. “Why? Why does it have to be me?”

“Kane, Jaha, Abigail - they’re all smart.” Lexa pulls the sleeves of her shirt over her wrists as she continues, the geometric tattoo along her spine and the cuff on her bicep revealed centimeters at a time, then catches the garment as it drops from her torso. “But smart doesn’t always cut it.”

She tosses the discarded shirt on the foot of the bed before turning to face Clarke again. As she continues speaking she steps forward slowly, deliberately, and stops only when she’s close enough that Clarke suddenly knows why she went into the bathroom: mouthwash. Lexa’s breath is minty fresh.

_Four: don’t let her enter your personal space._

“You’re a survivor, Clarke. Like me, you were born to do this. Your penchant for strategy, for lateral thinking - you know what needs to be done and aren’t afraid to do it. And I can’t risk losing this case. If the Kongeda Project is to get off the ground, I need your help.” Lexa’s eyes, locked on Clarke’s with all the hypnotising intensity only Lexa is capable of, now dip low. “And besides…” Clarke wonders briefly where they’re looking - her lips, her throat, her jawline perhaps - but they’re back up on hers before she can decide. And there’s an expression on Lexa’s face she’s not sure she’s ever seen before. “I trust you. In a way I don’t trust them.”

This close, Clarke can also smell the last hints of cologne Lexa had put on that morning. Something expensive sounding from Ormonde Jayne that Clarke has never been able to remember, but would recognize from across a crowded room. And beneath that, there’s just _Lexa_. Skin and warmth and an earthy, familiar scent that has Clarke’s pulse thundering in her ears.

“You have no reason to trust me any more than them,” Clarke hears herself say, and is proud of the steady confidence in her voice. Lexa being this close may have an embarrassingly quick effect on her body, but Lexa doesn’t need to know that. “And the fact remains that we had an agreement. If you really feel so strongly about this, you should have asked me.”

Lexa’s eyebrow perks again, but this time it’s less demanding and more honestly inquisitive. Her voice softens, and she asks, “Would you have said yes?”

“If you had explained why this is so important to you, yes, I…I would have considered it.” Clarke swallows and forces her eyes to stay _on Lexa’s, damn it_. “But you’ve robbed me of that choice, so we’ll never know. The problem isn’t whether I would have said yes or not, the problem is that you set boundaries for this…” she gestures between them with two fingers, “whatever this is. You expect me to respect those boundaries, but you don’t respect mine. So I’m done.”

There. She said it. She told Lexa Woods that their relationship - or dalliance, or whatever it is - is over. Now she just has to get out of this room…

Step one to that would be to turn around, but she can’t stop watching Lexa. The way the corner of her jaw tightens as she swallows, the flash of conflict behind her eyes; there’s fear there, she thinks, and something that feels suddenly like desperation. She can practically _see_ words forming on Lexa’s lips and knows she doesn’t want her to leave...but there’s restraint there as well. And ultimately, resignation. Lexa drops her eyes and nods, and Clarke finds herself feeling strangely disappointed.

“If that is what you wish,” Lexa says quietly, and steps back from Clarke. She moves a few feet away before turning her back on Clarke again, and Clarke finds herself watching her shoulder blades move beneath her black bra as she undoes her belt. Now would be the time to leave...but she can’t get her feet to move.

“Though I can’t say I won’t be disappointed,” Lexa goes on. Her belt, black leather to match her watch, snaps softly against her hip as she pulls it off, and she begins winding it around one hand. “No one has ever screamed my name quite as beautifully as you have.”

A deliciously painful _something_ twists in Clarke’s chest as those words leave Lexa’s mouth. God damn this woman.

“I’m sure you’ll find a satisfactory replacement for me,” she says. It’s true, too - Lexa could have any woman she wants, that’s no secret. The fact that she chose Clarke has to be just as much about convenience as anything else. Right? Clarke had always assumed as much, but the way Lexa was just looking at her...the unfamiliar sincerity in her voice…

Clarke shakes her head and closes her eyes, mentally berating herself for entertaining thoughts like these.

She takes a step back, but not toward the door. Instead, Clarke examines a glass case built into the closest shelf. She knows, _knows,_ that she’s delaying leaving when she should be in the elevator, halfway down the building already. Instead, she’s flicking open the latch and plucks out a single cufflink from the rows upon rows of the things. This one has a sapphire set in the middle of it, because of course it does. 

“In fact, I’d bet Elena could find a dozen women willing to scream your name tonight,” Clarke muses as she twists the little piece of hardware in her hands. “That woman really is underpaid.”

Lexa chuckles once, low in her chest. “Perhaps,” she says, and Clarke can picture so well the small smile likely tucked into one corner of her mouth. She hears a drawer slide open and a buckle clink as Lexa puts her belt away. “But it seems I’ve set myself and her both up for failure tonight.” The drawer closes. “Any other option is sure to be a disappointment.”

“Why?”

Clarke turns back around to find Lexa leaning casually against the shelf she’d no doubt just deposited her belt into. Waves of dark hair fall over one shoulder and sweeps just the littlest bit into her eyes. Her hands are in the pockets of her pants which, by either coincidence or design, shows off her impressive biceps. The thin black bra she still wears leaves little to the imagination and her abdomen is on full display. 

How Lexa Woods finds the time to stay this in shape and run one of the most successful tech companies in the world is truly a mystery. She looks for all the world like an at rest, female Adonis, and the whole scene fills Clarke with both agitation and intense desire.

“Why would another option be such a disappointment?” she presses. Clarke’s eyes betray her, raking up and down Lexa’s body, but she doesn’t move. Her libido may have a mind of its own, but it doesn’t control her actions. Not yet, anyway. “Why do you want me on this case? Why any of this, Lexa?”

“I’ve already told you,” Lexa answers easily - but the way she tips her head, just a bit, Clarke can see caution reflected in her green eyes. “You’re capable, and I need it done.”

Clarke rolls her eyes and sighs. “Fine. You know that’s not what I mean, but fine.” The cufflink is already in her hand, and it’s an easy enough thing to palm it and stuff her hand in her coat pocket. Is stealing it a petty thing to do? Yes. But is it _childish?_ Also yes - but Clarke can’t bring herself to care. It’s not like Lexa will miss it anymore than she’ll miss her. “If that’s all, I think I’ll be on my way. Have a good night, Lexa.”

She makes it to the bedroom door before Lexa catches her wrist. She sees it all coming, the way Lexa shrugs away from the wall, cutting a smooth beeline to intercept her...but she doesn’t do anything to stop it from happening. Lexa’s fingers, calloused from the same workouts that leave her arms looking like _that,_ close with surprising gentleness around Clarke’s arm; it’s enough to pull her hand from her pocket and arrest her movement, momentum causing her to turn halfway towards Lexa again. For a moment they’re both frozen there, looking at each other.

There’s no anger in Lexa’s eyes. No frustration, no irritation, not even a mild scolding - she merely looks at Clarke with that same conflicted light. Those eyes drop to Clarke’s hand, and Lexa wordlessly pulls on her wrist to draw her closer. Clarke is certain she could tug her arm away if she wanted, Lexa’s grip isn’t tight, but she finds no impulse to do so. Not even as Lexa’s other hand opens Clarke’s, catching the cufflink that drops from her fingers in the same motion.

If Lexa Woods actually gives a shit about that sapphire-set cufflink, there’s no trace of it in her expression. Instead she takes half a step closer into Clarke’s space - still on the edge of it, touching her nowhere except for her grip on her wrist - and carefully lifts Clarke’s hand. “I trust you, Clarke,” she says again, and presses Clarke’s palm to the side of her neck. Green eyes meet blue again. _I trust you_ is what she says, but Clarke can hear something else - words that Lexa doesn’t know or can’t bring herself to say, but that her eyes are begging Clarke to understand anyway. “That’s why anyone else would be a disappointment. You’re…” She struggles, drops her eyes, and exposes a larger crack in her armor than Clarke has yet seen with the flash of frustration crumpling her brow. “Different. Special.”

Clarke’s hand conforms to the curve of Lexa’s neck and her grip tightens compulsively. Every cell in her body screams at her to let this happen - to fall back into Lexa and lose herself like she has so many times before. But Lexa’s words, if anything, give strength to her conviction. Like Lexa’s willingness to let her go is all she needed to make the decision.

The barest of tugs brings Lexa further into her space. Close enough that Clarke can hook her thumb beneath Lexa’s jaw and tilt her head back - close enough that Clarke can lean forward and her lips can easily brush the thin skin of Lexa’s neck. 

“It’s not enough,” she whispers, and feels the rightness in her words. It hurts, but it’s right. She can’t keep doing this, not this way. And this is Lexa’s _only_ way. “I need more.”

Muscle tenses beneath her hand, and she can _feel_ Lexa’s breath catch in her chest. The tip of her finger brushes Lexa’s hairline, and she can feel the thin line of the infinity symbol tattooed there, the slightest of rises on Lexa’s skin. The woman herself takes a slow breath in through her nose, then slowly back out. Clarke can feel her throat tense beneath her hand and her lips as she swallows.

“One more night,” she says, tipping her head to the side to escape the hold of Clarke’s thumb. Free then to lower her head once more she levels her eyes on Clarke’s, their faces now a bare inch apart. Perhaps it’s merely the truncated distance that has Lexa dropping her voice so low...but no - her pupils are blown, and Clarke knows there’s another reason. “Stay tonight and I swear, you will never have to hear from me again.”

“One more night,” Clarke echoes. She wonders, idly, if merely saying the words aloud will spin them into reality - but the thought disappears as soon as their lips meet.

As always, Clarke initiating physical intimacy is all the invitation Lexa needs. Her hands find Clarke’s hips and tug her forcefully forward, urging their bodies to press together. Fingers creep around her waist and press into her skin, trapping her torso against Lexa’s own with strength that would be surprising if Clarke weren’t intimately familiar with it. Their hips and thighs press so tightly together she can feel the sapphire cufflink poke her from inside Lexa’s pocket.

Tugging her close also has the added benefit of pulling Clarke away from the door, creating space enough for Lexa to kick it closed. A few seconds later the fingers on Clarke’s waist tense, spin her around, and push her forward against the door; Clarke catches herself on her hands and then Lexa is there, behind her, chest pressed to her back, mouth hot on her neck, and her hands urging Clarke’s hands down.

All this, it turns out, to rid Clarke of her raincoat: once Clarke’s hands are off the door Lexa pulls the garment off her shoulders and down her arms. “This sweatshirt is ridiculous, by the way,” she says, voice a low growl in Clarke’s ear - but Clarke can feel her smile against her skin.

Clarke gasps as Lexa presses harder against her, forcing the breath from her lungs. “Then why do I still have it on?” 

In answer, rough hands yank the sweatshirt up her torso and over her head - and is presumably discarded somewhere behind them.

Lexa’s hands twist Clarke back around and before she can suck in a full breath, Lexa’s lips press against her own, tongue already insistent. The wood of the door is cool and only a little rough on Clarke’s bare shoulders, but she hardly cares. Her arms wrap instinctually around Lexa’s neck and her knee finds its way between Lexa’s legs. With their bodies pressed this close together, Clarke hardly has to move in order to bring Lexa’s weight down on her thigh. She presses her leg up against Lexa’s core and smiles around Lexa’s kiss when the other woman’s breath hitches.

“I don’t know, it seems like you might’ve liked it,” Clarke murmurs. “Just a little.”

Another low growl, and Lexa tries to get her knee around and inside Clarke’s - but Clarke isn’t budging. She plants her foot and tugs harder on Lexa’s shoulders so that every time Lexa tries to move she has to push herself into Clarke’s thigh, and Clarke leverages her weight against the door to press right back. Lexa’s teeth close on her own lower lip in response.

“Well...you know me,” she breathes, and Clarke feels her hands drift down below her hips. Then she _tugs_ on the thigh not trapped between her legs and hitches it around her hip, throwing Clarke off balance and forcing her to cling to Lexa’s shoulders with a yelp. The woman herself just smirks in return and takes the opportunity to step between Clarke’s legs; a second later, the whole of Clarke’s weight is balanced against Lexa’s pelvis as she picks her up, both thighs crushing against her hips, and carries her to the bed. She tosses Clarke onto pristine sheets and follows her down, and only once her own hip is driving against Clarke’s core does she finish: “I’ve always liked your clothes better when they’re on my floor.”

_Five: whatever you do, do not ever, ever, EVER let her fuck you in her bed._

Clarke’s instinct is to move; to sit up, to coax Lexa into something more illicit and fun than having sex in a boring old bed. A bed just feels so...intimate.

But Clarke’s brain isn’t working the way it normally does. A warning light may go off in some distant corner of her thoughts, but the rest of her is consumed in a fog of elation and desire and _Lexa._ The warning, weak as it is, is easy to ignore.

“You know,” Clarke leans up to catch Lexa’s lower lip between her teeth and slips her hands around her chest. The bra is undone in a moment, and slipped off of Lexa’s arms in another. “I’ve always felt the same.”

Lexa’s mouth twists in a way that Clarke is all too familiar with. Some clever, mildly condescending remark waits just behind her lips - and then is exhaled in a hiss as Clarke’s fingernails dig into the muscle of Lexa’s shoulders. “One more night,” she recites, and Lexa’s eyes blaze with green fire as they meet her own. “You better make sure I remember it.”

A truly wicked smirk twists Lexa’s lips. “Yes, ma’am.”

They toe shoes off and tug at pant zippers, doing their best to finish undressing the other by touch alone. It’s rough and it’s fast and a little sloppy, with neither paying much attention to where the clothing goes once it’s off; they roll from one side to the other, shifting weight to free their own hands or frustrate the other’s, and Lexa’s phone slides off the side of the bed somewhere in the midst of it. Clarke knows they both hear it clatter to the ground, but neither of them so much as consider doing anything about it.

Once Lexa is naked and Clarke is reduced to panties alone, the former pushes herself up onto hands and knees. Clarke immediately sits up to follow, but finds her plans to use the opportunity to flip Lexa promptly foiled as Lexa’s hand closes around her neck.

“Now now,” Lexa says lowly, thumb and middle finger pressing oh-so-gently into Clarke’s pulse points. Clarke freezes instantly beneath the implicit warning, and allows Lexa to push her slowly back into the bed. “Be a good girl. Stay right here.”

A discontented sound reverberates deep in the back of Clarke’s throat even as her stomach flips in anticipation. Lexa removes the pressure from her neck and reaches around the bed. She retrieves what she’s looking for with impressive speed - made even more impressive once Clarke sees what it is.

Lexa has used a strap on before, and the one in her hand is familiar to Clarke. The dildo itself is midnight blue and the leather straps are so impressively clean and expensive-looking that Clarke has wondered before whose hapless job it is to clean the sex toys. There isn’t much time to think about this now, though. Lexa has the thing on in the next few seconds, practiced hands easily buckling it into place.

“You keep that next to your bed?” Clarke asks, tone teasing. They’ve used the strap on before, but never in Lexa’s bed and Clarke has certainly never seen her retrieve it from her _bedside table_.

Lexa glances up from fiddling with a buckle for only a second, her eyebrow perked. “Is there somewhere else I should store it?”

“I don’t know, in a closet maybe, like a normal person?” Without sitting up, Clarke reaches up and runs the fingertips of her right hand down Lexa’s chest and over her abdominal muscles. “Or in one of your endless hidden shelves?”

Securing the strap by touch, Lexa lifts her eyes to survey the three walls of shelves that surround them. The bed itself is part of one of the units, its headboard built into and tucked beneath the shelves furthest from the door. The rest of the king-sized mattress is parallel to the room’s longest walls, meaning there’s dark wood to Clarke’s right and the same floor-to-ceiling windows as the rest of the apartment on her left. Pale blue light from the city below lights part of Lexa’s right side, lowlights offset by the warmer, dimmed white light in the bedroom. 

With a dildo hanging from her pelvis and Clarke’s hand trailing across her naked body, Lexa looks for all the world like she’s seriously considering this suggestion. 

Clarke opens her mouth to speak again - there’s a tug between her legs that reminds her they have _far more important things to be doing_ \- but as she does Lexa returns from her reverie. She pulls her attention away from the shelves and lowers herself between Clarke’s legs.

“There’s no room,” she decides, just as she pulls Clarke’s panties aside and runs her tongue through her core. 

“Fuck,” Clarke groans. Her hips push into Lexa’s tongue without her consent; insistent and demanding. But Lexa has fucked her enough times to know how she’ll respond and a strong arm presses along the length of her pelvis, effectively pinning Clarke in place.

She’s already wet. She knows it, and Lexa knows it, and frankly, Clarke can find no reason why anyone would _blame her_ for already being wet - but that doesn’t stop Lexa from settling in. Her hand flattens against Clarke’s hip bone, fingers curling around her hip to hold Clarke more securely, her other hand keeping underwear out of the way so she can run her tongue in long, flat, deep strokes. Each one pulls a little more of Clarke’s wetness up to her clit, and just as Clarke begins to relax into the pattern Lexa focuses her attention there: no more luxuriant laps, just small, firm circles around the gradually waking bundle of nerves. It’s enough to have her tensing again, her fingers twisting in the bedsheets. 

Unwilling to let Lexa have _too_ easy a time of this, Clarke doesn’t give herself over to it entirely. She thinks about the dildo waiting between Lexa’s thighs, letting anticipation of it distract her just a _little_ from what Lexa’s doing with her tongue. It doesn’t stop the little gasps and moans elicited when Lexa finds just the right place, but it does mean she’s not building to a precipice anytime soon.

Not that Lexa seems to mind in the least. _Make sure I remember it,_ Clarke said, but Clarke is beginning to suspect that she isn’t alone in wanting the memory. The way Lexa moves against her, indulgently, patiently, drinking deeply and thoroughly of her, it feels like she’s trying to memorize the way Clarke feels and tastes - and then Clarke _is_ thinking about what Lexa’s doing, and she _is_ thinking about how great it feels and the way it sends thrills up her spine and radiating out to her fingertips and--

She’s building despite herself, and just when she decides that fine, this can be how round one starts, Lexa stops. She pushes herself up onto her hands and knees and sits up, wiping her chin with the palm of one hand and pulling Clarke’s underwear down with the other.

“You could have just done that-- _mmph,_ ” Clarke’s retort is cut off by Lexa’s mouth suddenly on hers, the length of her body pressed against Clarke’s curves.

Lexa’s knees urge Clarke’s legs apart as her right hand snakes behind Clarke’s neck. Strong fingers close around the muscles there, curling in the hair at the nape of her neck possessively, while Lexa’s other hand guides the dildo. The way Lexa is able to keep herself upright with the strength of her abs and one wrist alone is impressive - not to mention fucking hot as hell. But Clarke isn’t able to focus on Lexa’s physical prowess for long. Her breath catches as the toy stretches her open and Lexa eases into her.

Green eyes look intently up at her, an unspoken question evident in them. In answer, Clarke wraps her arms around Lexa’s neck and pulls her back down. The motion forces the dildo even deeper, and Clarke groans with pleasure.

Lexa’s breath blows out through parted lips, rushing all at once against the side of Clarke’s face and neck as though Lexa had been holding it until that moment. Her forehead presses to Clarke’s, noses brushing, as her fingers tighten in Clarke’s hair and she begins to move her hips. 

“Fuck, Clarke,” she breathes, and the desire that drips from the words makes Clarke’s stomach flip even as the toy presses just a little deeper. Her own fingers sink into Lexa’s hair, her other hand gripping tight to her shoulder blade as she moves along with Lexa’s slow, thorough pace. Lexa’s other hand, no longer needed between her legs, twists in the sheets next to Clarke’s shoulder, and they hold eye contact for a beat more before Lexa closes hers. And then her face is buried in Clarke’s neck, kissing and biting and licking and saying, “Make that sound again.”

Clarke turns her head, just enough to graze Lexa’s ear with her lips. “Make me,” she whispers, and can feel the shiver that shoots up Lexa’s spine in response. 

A growl resonates against Clarke’s pulse point before Lexa’s teeth latch onto the spot, eliciting a small gasp from Clarke, and Lexa’s hips shift slightly. It isn’t immediately obvious why or how, until Lexa’s shoulders tense in Clarke’s grip and her pace quickens, and it is abundantly clear what she’s done. Her hips press forward and up, hitting a particular spot in Clarke that Lexa knows from experience will unravel her and, at the same time, pressing the base of the dildo rhythmically against Clarke’s clit.

The moan that slips past Clarke’s lips is wanton and indulgent, but she doesn’t care. Her thighs tighten around Lexa’s hips, ankles crossing themselves behind Lexa’s ass to keep her in place and encourage her deeper, harder. Lexa obliges, her breath coming faster with the exertion. 

Her free hand grabs Clarke’s ass for leverage, her knees digging deeper into the mattress - and then, a minute later, she palms a handful of Clarke’s breast. It’s no secret that Clarke has incredible breasts, not to Clarke, not to anyone - but _especially_ not to Lexa. Clarke’s enjoyed taking advantage of the other woman’s blatantly obvious susceptibility to her cleavage on more than one occasion, and there’s rarely a night they spend together where Lexa doesn’t spend much of it lavishing attention there. Tonight, it seems, will be no different. Lexa catches Clarke’s nipple between her thumb and forefinger and isn’t exactly gentle about it; between that and the way Lexa catches her skin between her teeth, it’s enough to make Clarke gasp.

“Be gentle,” Clarke chides, pulling on Lexa’s hair even as her legs tighten to urge her deeper. Lexa sucks another bruise into her neck for her trouble, lifting her lips just long enough to say:

_“No.”_

She presses deep into that spot and Clarke groans again. Her neck will be covered in bruises the next morning now, she knows, but there isn’t any part of her that cares. Nothing else matters much when Lexa’s fucking her like this - and she _does_ keep fucking her like that. They cling to each other in the semi-dark, moaning, groaning, _gasping_ as sweat builds in their hair and dampens the sheets. When Clarke decides she can’t take it anymore she slips her hand between their torsos--

But Lexa catches her arm before she can find herself, and this time her hold isn’t so loose. Clarke tries in vain to break free, and Lexa’s able to push her hand back up. The hand buried in Clarke’s hair releases and slips under her neck, leaving Clarke’s neck resting on the inside of Lexa’s forearm; she catches Clarke’s wrist in her newly freed hand in a vice grip. With her weight balanced now on her elbow and forearm, Lexa lifts her head to meet Clarke’s eyes.

“Allow me,” she breathes, and pauses just long enough for her thumb to find Clarke’s clit. 

Clarke can’t help it: she whimpers as soon as Lexa touches her. Between Lexa’s ability to somehow, impossibly, keep up the exact pace and position of the strap on and the way her body weight _presses_ her thumb against Clarke’s clit, it’s a miracle she doesn’t come right then. 

Not to mention the fact that Lexa is holding herself up on one elbow, the fingers of her right hand encircling Clarke’s wrist in a vice. It’s an incredible feat of strength and endurance that the other woman is demonstrating, but Clarke couldn’t care less. 

Her right arm jerks involuntarily, but Lexa’s grip is like iron. Her left grasps Lexa’s shoulder hard enough to leave deep scratches and her breath shudders in ragged heaves.

“Lexa... _fuck_. Lexa, holy shit…” 

Clarke is reduced to mumbled expletives mixed with Lexa’s name. Just when she thinks she can’t take anymore and her body tenses to the point of snapping, Lexa finds her eyes again.

“It’s alright,” she whispers, breathless. “You’re safe. I have you.”

Clarke’s heart pounds in her chest, and it’s not from the impending orgasm. Lexa likes to talk during sex - they both do, and she’s no stranger to Lexa whispering permission for her to come into her ear. Demanding it, even.

But this isn’t a demand. Lexa’s gaze never leaves Clarke’s face, and all she can see in those green eyes is sincerity. Affection. Maybe even…

Lexa’s thumb presses in hard circles over her clit and Clarke shudders, all thoughts of what those words may mean swept away with the feeling. With a last thrust of Lexa’s hips, Clarke tips over the edge. An orgasm rakes through her like fire over coals, flaring even the most dormant of her nerve endings to agonizing, immediate life. Lexa’s name falls from her lips in a breathless scream and she clings to her back, suddenly in possession of the use of both her arms.

Only after the wave crests, the overwhelming first rise of orgasm breaking into shudders and shivers, does she realize why. As Clarke comes her body folds into Lexa’s, and Lexa’s is folding into hers in turn: the hand that held her wrist is in her hair again, supporting her head as Lexa buries her face in Clarke’s neck once more. But there are no bites this time, no kisses. Lexa’s nose just presses to the space beneath the corner of Clarke’s jaw, holding her and drinking in every sound and twitch and scratch Clarke gives her. Her thumb and hips continue moving between them until the shivering and whimpering stops, Lexa’s pace only slowing as they do. 

When Clarke is reduced to bonelessness, Lexa stops altogether. She pulls her hand from between them and settles it on Clarke’s hip, but otherwise doesn’t move; just lays beside Clarke, forehead tipped against the side of her ear, both a tangled mess of panting and sweat-damp limbs. 

Clarke allows herself to return to normalcy slowly. Her thoughts are sluggish and distant, and her arms wouldn’t obey her direction to move if she wanted them to. Lexa is good at fucking her, there’s no doubt about that - Clarke wouldn’t put up with half as much shit from the woman if she weren’t. But it’s rarely _that_ good. It’s a pleasure just to bask in the afterglow. 

But soon enough, Lexa makes an _mmm_ sound against the side of her cheek and nips at her jaw, bringing Clarke back to the present. “Hey,” Clarke chides half-heartedly, “you’ve left enough bruises.”

Lexa lets her push her up, Clarke’s hands against her pectorals and fingers on her collarbones easing their bodies apart. Lexa’s hair is a jostled mess; she takes a moment to sweep it back over her head with one hand and props herself up on the other, a familiar smirk taking residence on her lips. “Enough to remember me by?”

“Enough to remember twelve of you by, I’m sure.” Clarke’s fingers find their way, as they so often do, back to Lexa’s torso. Along the curve of her breasts, down the length of her sternum. Around the muscles in her stomach, still tense from holding herself upright. Gentle caresses, but Lexa closes her eyes as soon as Clarke’s fingertips touch her skin. “But I might need a little more.”

That smirk twitches bigger for just a flash. When Lexa opens her eyes again they’re hooded and burning once more. “I believe that could be arranged.”

After the second session Lexa retrieves water and whiskey from the kitchen, and Clarke accepts a rocks glass that costs far too much and weighs far too much before - for the first time that night - actually getting under the bed covers. Then there’s a third, and a fourth; Clarke is reminded that the latticework that blends Lexa’s headboard with the shelves above isn’t just for show, and can be a very helpful brace for someone riding a strap. But even that is eventually discarded, leaving fingers and mouths and, for a time, vibrators, to do as they please. 

There’s no clock visible in Lexa’s room, and with her phone still in her coat pocket there’s no easy way for Clarke to track the passage of time. She did promise Raven that she was only going to talk to Lexa tonight, and can only imagine the I-told-you-so awaiting her when she shows up in the same clothes she left in the next morning but...the inclination to flee this place, this bed, this _woman_ is lessened in the intervening hours. In the morning they’ll go their separate ways; Clarke trusts Lexa to respect that boundary, at least. But as the hour grows late, a certain softness sets in that leaves Clarke feeling too warm and safe to venture into the rain again.

Amidst this warmth and safety, there’s a quiet moment as they both catch their breath. Lexa reclines on her side, half propped up by an arm under Clarke’s neck and half by the pillows she’s stuffed under her shoulder and head. Her whiskey glass hangs from the fingertips on that hand while the other traces lazy patterns over Clarke’s hip bone, something vaguely meditative about the motion. 

A strange thought occurs to Clarke then, as if surfaced from the depths of consciousness. “You didn’t have dinner.”

Lexa’s hand doesn’t so much as pause in its movements, but her head tilts up to look quizzically at Clarke. “I mean, you didn’t finish your dinner. We sort of…” _Why_ is Clarke attempting to salvage this train of thought? And yet: “You’ve had quite a lot of whiskey for someone who’s had maybe four bites of salmon all evening. I’m honestly surprised that you’re still functional.”

A lazy shrug answers this, and Lexa’s fingers trail further up Clarke’s side. “I have been told I have an impressive constitution.”

Clarke curls just the littlest bit farther into Lexa’s chest, wanting to be closer to her despite herself. “Well that is certainly true. But I promised one more night, and it’s hardly the morning.” Clarke, in fact, has no concept of what time it is, but she barrels forward anyway. “We have time, and apparently it’s just as good as Polo.”

Now Lexa moves, properly pushing herself up on one elbow so Clarke can be met by the full brunt of her raised eyebrow. She’s careful though, Clarke thinks, not to pull too far away. If anything, the way her arm settles across Clarke’s abdomen seems to draw her closer yet. “I’m fairly certain Polo doesn’t serve fish that went cold hours ago.”

“Sure, but even salmon ‘just as good as Polo’ must be pretty decent reheated.” 

_Why_ is she doing this? They have sex, that’s all. That’s always what this arrangement has been about. Clarke isn’t supposed to care whether Lexa eats or what her fucking iron levels are, or whatever the hell it is that’s motivating this. But that part of her brain is easily dismissed at this time of night, after hours of incredible sex and the way Lexa has been looking at her all evening. Like there’s nothing else in the world but Clarke.

“Besides,” Clarke’s fingertips wander across Lexa’s stomach and further still, “you have to have worked up an appetite by now.”

Lexa’s hand _shoots_ down to catch Clarke’s before it can wander too far, a reflex so rapid it makes Clarke grin. The warning look Lexa gives her lands as anything but serious and she lifts Clarke’s captured hand to her lips to press a kiss to the heel of her palm. “If world class salmon is what you’re after, _that_ certainly won’t help you.”

“World class, is it?” Clarke nuzzles into Lexa’s neck and nips at the already bruised skin. “I think you might have to prove that.”

That awards her a very put upon sigh and very gentle shove. “You’re lucky you’re so sexy. Come on.”

Clarke is left blinking a few times in utter surprise as Lexa rolls out of bed. “Wait - you’re serious?”

And Lexa - already halfway across the room and opening a drawer - turns to ask her right back: “Were you not?”

“I…” Clarke’s stomach growls: an answer all its own. She hadn’t exactly eaten dinner before coming over here, either. That would have been admitting that she would need to eat before coming home, or that she would be eating with Lexa; neither of which was an option. So she had insisted that Raven order sushi for them both to be delivered by the time she got back.

Either Raven has eaten it all, or has thrown it out in annoyance by now.

“As long as we can revisit this,” she eyes Lexa up and down with brazen appraisal, “I could be persuaded to take a break.”

“I’ve already been instructed to ensure you remember this night,” Lexa says, returning to the drawer before her. Her tone is its typically distant self, but Clarke caught the pleased glint in her eye before she turned around. “If taking my clothes off for a second time is what it takes to do so, I think we can work something out.”

Clarke is quick to hop out of bed after that. She scoops up the button down Lexa had been wearing earlier, now mussed and wrinkled and forgotten on the ground, and pulls it over her shoulders. There’s _at best_ an inch height difference between them, so Lexa’s shirt doesn’t quite cover her ass - but the apartment is warm enough that that doesn’t feel like much of a concern. By the time Lexa has finished pulling on a pair of very un-Lexa-like sweatpants, Clarke is already lingering by the door. 

“Sweatpants?” Clarke eyes the, frankly, aggressively maroon sweatpants - and even more aggressively designed ‘ASU’ running down the side. In yellow, no less. “Really?”

“I am hearing an awful lot of judgment from someone who wants me to make her dinner at…” Lexa checks her watch. “Nearly one o’clock in the morning.”

“Fine, fine.” Clarke waves a hand dismissively even as, when Lexa draws nearer to the doorway, she grabs the waistband of her pants and pulls her in close. Lexa inhales in that way that lets Clarke know that she’s surprised and catches herself with one hand on the door frame. She nips at Lexa’s collarbone and then, just as quickly, lets her go. “I concede, then. For now. For salmon, more to the point.”

“Yes, yes. And hostilities will resume as soon as you’ve been fed,” Lexa sighs, as though reciting a very old treaty indeed. She pushes away from the door and gives the hem of Clarke’s stolen shirt a tug. “Come on, then.”

As they make their way down the hall it occurs to Clarke that she has never - not _once,_ not in the several months they’ve been playing this game - seen Lexa in something as mundane as _sweatpants_. A sports bra, yes, jeans, on occasion, but vibrant red and yellow sweatpants? They look about as worn as some of the books on her bedroom shelves, and they hang in the most _delightful_ way from her hip bones...but there’s something else about them, too. Or more specifically, something else about Lexa wearing them in front of her that Clarke can’t quite pinpoint and can’t quite bring herself to investigate.

The woman in question doesn’t so much as pause when they enter the kitchen, immediately picking up both plates left on the island and carrying them to the sink. There she nudges a dimmer switch to bring the kitchen lights up. The candle on the countertop has since smothered its flame in its own wax, the extra light it once offered now gone. 

Clarke leans her elbows forward on the island opposite Lexa, watching her as she moves around her space. Between the late hour and the sweatpants, Clarke is suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of nostalgia. Hazy nights in her studio apartment at Yale - tipsily falling around her kitchen in search of the perfect late night snack. 

“I suppose it would take a while for you to recreate something as lavish as Polo salmon,” Clarke muses. “Maybe something a little less complex?”

Lexa pokes at the cold vegetables on the plates with her abandoned fork. “By all means, I am a twenty-four hour restaurant,” she says, flat sarcasm in her voice. Apparently deciding the current plates are beyond repair she turns and leans her own elbows against the island. She folds her hands in front of her, a scant two inches between them and Clarke’s. “But, seeing as this is your last opportunity to have one of my magnificent meals...I suppose I can acquiesce. What did you have in mind?”

Clarke levels a serious look at Lexa and waits until the other woman’s eyebrow nearly reaches her hairline before saying the words: “Grilled cheese.”

That wins her a surprised laugh. _“Grilled cheese?”_

“What?” Clarke grins at the sound. “A girl can’t appreciate both overpriced fish _and_ cheese melted in bread?”

“I’m certain she _could,_ I just didn’t anticipate…” As she speaks, Lexa pushes herself up off the counter and turns to look at the fridge with narrowed, speculative eyes. A few seconds of silence pass in which Clarke can practically see the gears turning in Lexa’s head, and then she’s in motion again. “Let’s see what we can do.”

 _We_ don’t have to do anything, as it turns out; Clarke slides into one of the chairs on her side of the island, jumping a little as her bare ass hits the cool surface, while Lexa digs around her refrigerator muttering to herself. 

“Ideally we would have sliced cheese of some variety,” she ultimately says, returning from her dive into the absurdly large appliance with handfuls of overpriced cheeses that were never intended for something as pedestrian as grilled cheese, “but I can make this work.”

“I have no doubt.” Why would Lexa even _have_ half a dozen fancy cheeses in her refrigerator? She’s hardly ever here, let alone snacking on cheese. But then again, why is anything in this apartment the way it is.

Lexa finds some suspiciously fresh-looking Italian bread from a cupboard and goes about heating some butter and laying out her various ingredients. Clarke picks up the hunk of cheese closest to her and raises an eyebrow at the label. Aged manchego. “This is going to be a very different experience than the grilled cheeses I used to make, I can already tell.”

“The last grilled cheese I made used Kraft singles and Wonderbread,” Lexa hums. She kneels beneath the island for a moment, the sound of a cabinet opening and things clanking accompanying her disappearance. When she stands again, it’s with a mandoline in her hands. “I think it’s safe to say this version will be much stinkier.”

“Stinky cheese is the best cheese, so--wait.” Clarke’s brow furrows in confusion. “You’ve made a grilled cheese before? _With Kraft singles and Wonderbread?"_

Lexa really ought to just get a raised eyebrow tattooed on her forehead. “And here I thought you’d read my entire wikipedia page.”

Clarke has read quite a lot more than her wikipedia page, but that’s beside the point. “Pretty sure I would remember a line declaring that Lexa Woods, tech mogul extraordinaire, enjoys Kraft singles.” Something about this admission feels...personal. Lexa rarely reveals her likes or dislikes, let alone tidbits about her past. It’s too tempting not to press her on the subject. “When was the last time you had one?”

“Mmm…” She butters one side of four slices of bread and drops each of them butter-side down on the pan over low heat, then starts shaving chunks of cheese off with the mandoline. “It would’ve been before Coalition’s Series B, so. Years ago, at this point.”

“And at that point there was no--” Clarke reaches for another cheese and reads the label, “--epoisse in your life, I assume?”

“There wasn’t much of anything in my life at that point.”

One layer of cheese after another is piled on two slices of bread, and when the correct ratio of them is achieved the remaining slices are sandwiched on top. Lexa stands guard over the skillet, hip leaning against the countertop beside it with a spatula in one hand and the other in her pocket. There’s every chance she isn’t familiar with the phrase about watched pots, as she hardly looks up from the sandwiches sizzling away. 

“You hardly ever talk about that time.” Clarke watches the curve of Lexa’s jaw. The way it clenches in response, just the littlest bit. But she can’t help it - she’s always been hungry for information about Lexa. And this is, after all, her last opportunity to ask. “In interviews, I mean. You always say it was worth it, but never what ‘it’ was.”

“‘It’ was difficult,” Lexa answers flatly, and there’s no sarcasm in it this time. “But now I have what I wanted then, so it was worth it.”

Clarke sighs, unsure why she thought she would get any farther than usual with these sorts of questions. She may be wearing bright red sweatpants, but she’s still Lexa. “You certainly do have a way of getting what you want.”

That catches Lexa’s attention. She quickly looks up at Clarke, surprise in her eyes for the brief moment they meet Clarke’s. Then they drop to the floor and she visibly frowns at herself before turning to the stove once more. If Clarke didn’t know any better, she’d say Lexa was annoyed with herself. 

She flips the sandwiches and presses them each into the skillet with the back of the spatula. 

“What about your grilled cheese?” The question is abrupt, catching Clarke somewhat off guard. When she doesn’t respond immediately, Lexa looks over her shoulder at her. “When was the last one? At Yale?”

“Oh, yeah. That’s not the kind of thing you order at a client dinner, so probably.” Clarke tries to cast her memory back to that time. The whole thing is truly a blur - especially where grilled cheeses were concerned. The thought makes her smile. “We would cram for exams all day and night, right up until an hour before. Then we’d take the exam, walk to the closest bar, and get drunk for the rest of the day. Grilled cheese was sort of my 2AM nighttime ritual. I’d get home, open another beer, and make myself a snack before passing out. Almost always cured a hangover the next day.”

“A delicious _and_ proactive snack.”

“I know I am, Lexa, but we’re talking about sandwiches right now.”

Lexa’s head pops up at that, and green eyes blink blankly at Clarke for a full three seconds. She can hardly keep the smile off her lips as she watches Lexa work out the joke in real time - so when she _does_ finally get it, eliciting a chuckle and a shake of the head that has the same energy as an eyeroll, Clarke can’t help but laugh too.

Two more plates are retrieved from cupboards on Lexa’s side of the island, and one grilled cheese is promptly placed on both of them.

“Well. Here’s to hoping these _sandwiches,_ ” Lexa says, turning off the gas burner and hefting a knife, “will cure tomorrow’s hangover. Wait.” She freezes, knife poised over the first grilled cheese, and levels a narrow-eyed look at Clarke that’s far too serious for the question that follows. “How do you cut your grilled cheese?”

“I don’t.”  
  
Lexa frowns. “I’m sorry?”

“I don’t cut my grilled cheese, I just eat it.” Clarke shrugs. “Why bother, you know?”

Clarke has never _seen_ Lexa Woods look so affronted. She puts the knife down and fully steps back from the island. “You _what?”_

“I just pick it up.” Clarke demonstrates by picking up her, as of yet, uncut grilled cheese. “See? Fits right in my hand, look at that.”

“Give that back,” Lexa demands, but Clarke pulls the sandwich back out of her reach. Her mouth drops open. _“Clarke!”_

“What?” 

“You can’t just - eat a whole grilled cheese!” Laughter starts to bubble up from Clarke’s chest, and Lexa’s outrage begins to break around laughter of her own. “How will you dip it in tomato soup?”

Now it’s Clarke’s turn to raise her eyebrow. “You have tomato soup?”

“Well, no. But it’s the _principle_ of the thing!” 

“You just rip it apart!” Lexa quite literally gapes at this response, which is enough to release the laugh from Clarke’s chest. “What? How do _you_ cut your grilled cheese, then?”

"In half!" This would be the least descriptive and least helpful answer if Lexa didn't also cut her grilled cheese at the same time. Straight down the middle, so there's nothing but square shapes and ninety degree angles in sight. 

“I would’ve guessed diagonal,” Clarke muses, and in the next instant takes a bite of her still intact sandwich. “Oh, shit,” she moans, just the littlest bit. “That’s really good. Missing tomatoes, but otherwise amazing.”

"Is it? I was rather worried it would be a disaster," Lexa mutters. She takes a bite of hers, chews thoughtfully, and ultimately nods approvingly. No longer distracted, she returns to litigating the case at hand: "Diagonal is only useful if you need to fit the halves into a narrow soup container. If you're not eating tomato soup out of a mug," the emphatic note of derision is all Clarke needs to know about Lexa's thoughts on mugs of soup, "then the square cut is superior. It bequeaths a constant grilled-cheese-to-soup ratio."

“Sounds like diagonal is more versatile. Useful in a number of situations, and therefore” Clarke takes a bite and talks around a mouthful of cheese, “is superior.”

"Says the woman biting into a whole sandwich, like a heathen," Lexa mutters.

Clarke takes another bite and shrugs. “I like what I like. I’m not Sexy Lawyer Clarke all the time, believe it or not. Sometimes I’m a real, normal person, who eats grilled cheeses the way I please.”

"I understand that and appreciate that about you, but a real, normal person can still take the two seconds to cut their sandwich in half."

“You _appreciate_ that about me?” Clarke’s eyebrows shoot up. “Since when?”

Lexa's caught off guard. She freezes with her sandwich halfway to her mouth and looks at Clarke, something that looks suspiciously like embarrassment gradually taking hold of her expression. She sets the grilled cheese down. "Did I say something wrong?"

“You’ve made it pretty clear that you prefer Sexy Lawyer Clarke. Disparaging a perfectly good sweatshirt being the latest example.” Clarke’s head cocks to the side and she watches Lexa’s reaction curiously. “Why does that seem like a surprise to you?”

Surprise, at first, and then...consternation? Clarke can see the moment Lexa chooses to deflect. "In my defense, it is an _objectively_ ridiculous sweatshirt."

Clarke just rolls her eyes and shoves the last bite of her sandwich into her mouth. “Not as ridiculous as those pants,” she mutters. Lexa is close enough that she can reach out and tug on the offending garment’s waistband, encouraging Lexa to move closer. “Maybe it’s time we get rid of them.”

Lexa allows herself to be pulled, but she hasn’t finished her sandwich as quickly as Clarke has. She takes her time munching through the remainder, giving Clarke the opportunity to run her hands over Lexa’s hip bones and lower abs - all while maintaining eye contact. By the time she’s finished, that green fire is back in Lexa’s eyes and she brushes off her hands. 

“Perhaps…” she says, slipping a hand beneath the collar of Clarke’s borrowed shirt. Her fingers follow the curve of Clarke’s shoulder, thumb brushing her collarbone as she pushes one side of the shirt off and down. “It is.”

The following morning, Clarke wakes having gotten only a few hours of sleep. Her limbs are heavy with satisfaction, the afterglow of giving and receiving several orgasms having wrung out what feels like a week's worth of tension from her body. As she lifts her head Lexa stirs as well; the way they're curled around each other, it's difficult for one of them to move without disturbing the other. Falling asleep in each other's arms is one of the few soft things Lexa allows herself - and this morning, just like any other morning, she doesn't so much as acknowledge it as she pushes herself up.

But unlike most mornings, Lexa doesn't immediately go about her day. Clarke does, insofar as she gathers her things. Without her overnight bag she has only the clothes from last night to wear, and contemplates her walk of shame past her doorman and into her own apartment as she pulls on her jeans. There's even less she can do about her makeup, and blots at the smudged eyeliner and flaked mascara in the bathroom mirror. She gives the toothbrush left for her in the stand by the sink its last use, then fights with her hair for approximately thirty seconds before deciding nothing can be done about it. Using a tie stolen from Lexa's drawer she ties it up in a ponytail, hickeys be damned.

All of this is as it typically is on mornings in Lexa's apartment, and Clarke realizes she'd expected to leave the bathroom to find Lexa dressing as well. Even if she has nowhere to immediately be, Lexa still puts on actual pants and a button down shirt to sit in the kitchen and drink her morning coffee. Most of the time she's already in work mode before Clarke has so much as brushed her teeth. So Clarke is surprised to come out and find Lexa still sitting on the edge of her bed, the red sweatpants hanging from her hips once more. 

"It's not raining," she says, nodding to the windows. That fact is perfectly evident, as it was the sunlight that woke them both. "But it's still chilly out."

As she says this, she stands and picks up Clarke's retrieved raincoat from where it's draped on the bed beside her.

"Right..." Clarke says slowly. She steps forward and Lexa helps her put the coat on. "Thanks."

She's nervous. All the nerves of the night before return again in full force, even though she'd already done what she came her to do. She told Lexa this arrangement of theirs wasn't enough, and it was over. The only thing left to do is to get on the elevator one last time, and never see the inside of this apartment again. Or see Lexa like _this_ again. 

Why does that suddenly feel so scary?

The anxiety she feels appears in Lexa's shoulders as well. The other woman doesn't say much, and when she walks Clarke to the door there's no long, lingering goodbye. Just an awkward pause as the reality of the moment sets in for them both. In the next moment, things will change between them. And neither of them wants that moment to come.

But come it does, and the elevator doors close with Lexa still lingering in her open doorway. She crosses the lobby, waving to the doorman, and steps into the car waiting for her outside.

Sitting in the backseat of the cab, Clarke thinks of all the shit Raven will give her when she gets home. It'll be days before she hears the end of it, and she thinks for a moment of texting her before she arrives, try to head it off at the pass - but when she puts her hand in her coat pocket, her fingers brush something other than her phone. She frowns, scoops it out...and finds the sapphire-set cufflink sitting in her palm.

Lexa must have slipped it in her pocket before giving her the coat. 

Rolling it between her fingers to catch the facets’ light, her heart gives an unexpected thrill. And she can all but hear Raven’s voice in her head: _if you’re under her, you’re not getting over her._


End file.
